


On the Importance of Sleep

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Doubt, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sassy, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 03:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16715726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: When a voice from deep inside him tries to warn Danny he’s heading down a dangerous path, he tells it to fuck off. Because crawling into bed with Steve may be inviting disaster, but it’s also inviting sleep. And that’s too much for him to resist.Or, Steve starts sleeping in Danny’s bed, and that’s not going to be problematic at all, now is it?





	On the Importance of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Well, damn. It’s another “how they start sleeping together” story. I know, I know, you’re shocked.
> 
> A side benefit of being sick at Thanksgiving is getting out of the family dinner and getting to spend the day editing my story instead. Heh, heh, heh. So here, have some lovely feelings and smut, on this day-before the three year anniversary of my first posted fic (which was all of 358 words long—if nothing else, my stories have gotten longer).... Hope you’re all cozy and warm and feeling well-fed, emotionally as well as physically. <3

It had made sense, when it had started, a few weeks back. Danny’s house is closer to work, and Steve’s is closer to where they like to surf on the weekend. Not that the island is huge. Not that traffic is ever really all that bad. But those extra ten, fifteen, twenty minutes can add up, especially when it’s late at night (or early in the morning) and you’re exhausted from a long, hard day, and you just want a nice warm meal, a hot shower, and bed. Or, as the case may be, sofa. Danny’s starting to think he should get rid of his sofa and just turn his living room into a guest room for Steve. It’s basically all the room gets used for anymore.

The point is, they’d fallen into this habit—week nights spent at his, weekends spent at Steve’s—from some maybe slightly twisted sense of practicality. At least, that had been what they’d told themselves. Danny’s not entirely sure anymore how accurate that was in the first place. How much it might have been something more, something else, some need they can’t even think of, let alone put words to. But he feels it now.

_Now_  meaning four am and he can’t sleep, so he’s sitting in the chair in the living room watching Steve sleep.

They’d had a series of late cases, a series of early cases. Really it’d been as though the entire island’s criminal complement had insomnia for the past week and a half, and it’s been murder on Danny’s sleep schedule. (Not that  _Danny_  and  _sleep schedule_  are words that go very well together at the best of times.)

But sleep’s felt a little more fucked up than usual, and somewhere around two am, it had occurred to Danny that part of that might just be the solid, warm, comforting figure asleep on his sofa...  _and not in his bed_.

It’s not like it’s a thought he’s never had before. It’s just usually come at slightly less unreasonable times. Like when they’ve both been drunk and fallen asleep on the sofa at Steve’s. Or sitting in the Camaro waiting a suspect out for hours on end, starting to drift into less than normal levels of coherence.

And they’ve been vague thoughts mostly. Moments of  _ohh, it’s nice to be close to a warm, familiar body_. Feelings of comfort derived from proximity and practicality. Nothing more.

And really, he’s not sure why this should feel different. Why he’s been kept awake by the thought once he’d had it. Why he’s been unable to stop the train of reasoning that had, slowly at first and then with greater speed and certainty, begun to convince him that a physical relationship with Steve makes perfect logical sense.

Which is how he’s ended up out here in his living room at four in the goddamn morning, shivering slightly even though it’s not really cold, thinking very seriously that he wishes Steve was in his bed rather than on his sofa, and that if that were somehow magically the case, all sorts of things about his life would make a lot more sense.

“You gonna keep staring at me, buddy? Or did you want something?”

Danny laughs. That awkward, caught-out sort of laugh. He’s grateful to the dark, for hiding his blush.

Steve turns to face him, grunting as he does, and it’s not really played into his thinking, how uncomfortable it must be, to spend so many nights sleeping on a sofa, and he feels bad about that. Bad about how he’s accepted that this is the new normal—Steve, on his sofa. Because he’s grown attached to it and he doesn’t want to let it go. And he can’t admit why.

“Can’t sleep,” he says instead. “Usually when I can’t sleep I come out here and watch TV. But, obviously....” He waves vaguely at Steve and the sofa.

And maybe Steve reads something in his tone somewhere, maybe he’s as quick at strategizing in his sleep as he is awake, or maybe he’s just half asleep and being practical. But he sits up and pats the sofa next to him.

“Here, buddy, you come sit here and watch your TV. I’ll go sleep in your bed.”

And he says it like it simply makes sense, and maybe it does make sense in the way things do when you’re still mostly asleep. Or maybe he’s relieved to get the chance at a real bed for once. But Danny can barely react before Steve’s up and turned on the TV, handing him the remote, and headed for Danny’s room... and his bed.

It takes a good few minutes before Danny even registers the irony of the infomercial that’s on—for a super fantastic inflatable mattress that fits conveniently in your closet and inflates in mere moments for those unexpected holiday guests.

And he wants, ohhh god he wants, to get up and go back to his room and crawl into his bed next to Steve and say  _This, this is what I really want. Can we see where this might go?_

But he’s a great big coward, and so he doesn’t.

Instead he allows himself to sink slowly into Steve’s pillow, to smell that familiar scent of soap and something slightly briny, as though Steve’s always only just come out of the sea. There’s something heavier beneath it as well. A deeper, sleep-drenched scent that Danny can only name  _Steve_. And his heart thumps awkwardly against his chest, blood surges in his ears and somewhere slightly further south as well. But he pulls the pillow close, drops on his side with a sigh, and thinks about actually buying one of those damned inflatable things. At least it would mean Steve’s smell not seeping into his sofa.

Of course it doesn’t occur to him that Steve’s scent is now seeping into other places. No, for some stupid ass reason,  _that_  doesn’t occur to him till the next night, when he’s alone at his house, the day having been a strangely normal one and Steve having gone to his own place that night. It doesn’t occur to him until after his head’s hit his pillow... and he realizes it smells like Steve.

His whole fucking bed smells like Steve.

And that’s just great. Just absolutely great. Because there’s no way he’s sleeping now. Or. There’s no way some  _part_  of him is sleeping now. Goddammit. He is  _not_  going to jerk off to the smell of his partner and best friend on his pillow. That would be a colossal mistake. A great big fucking disaster.

But sometimes Danny  _is_  a great big fucking disaster. And evidently he has no self control.

Which is to say of course that he  _does_  jerk off to the smell on his pillow of his best friend and partner of eight fucking years. And blast it all to hell if it’s not the best goddamn orgasm he’s had in ages.

And that’s just  _not_  okay.

But he falls asleep before he can beat himself up over it. And he sleeps so soundly that when he starts to freak out about it in the morning he doesn’t get very far, because there’s just not time for it. And probably he should change the sheets, so the temptation isn’t there tonight, but he’s slept so well he’s going to be late if he does laundry, so he doesn’t. And he also doesn't think to himself that maybe it’s worth it (the amazing stupidity of being so turned on by the lingering smell of Steve in his bed that he can masturbate himself into oblivion) because it means  _sleep_. Wonderful sleep. 

No, that’s not why he leaves the sheets as they are. Not it at all.

Except it is. Because that night he does exactly the same fucking thing. And the night after. And shit, but this is turning into something very, very not okay. So maybe he’s oddly relieved when Steve ends up at his house the night after that, because there’s no way he’s jerking off with Steve in the other room.

Unfortunately, there’s also no way he’s sleeping, with Steve in the other room. And he doesn’t plan to do it, and he fights it for as long as he can, but he ends up back in the living room, watching Steve sleep again. And Steve doesn’t even say anything, when he stirs and realizes Danny’s there, he just clicks on the TV, pats the sofa, and shuffles sleepily off to Danny’s room.

It’s not till Danny’s almost asleep, inhaling deeply against Steve’s pillow, that it occurs to Danny to wonder if he hasn’t left some scents of his own in his bed. And if Steve won’t notice. He’s too far gone to the pull of sleep by that point, so the flare of panic in his belly rolls over into his dreams, and it’s only just light out when he wakes in a start from a nightmare which may or may not have involved Steve-sized pillows and Danny being caught with his dick in his hand. But the panic overwhelms him now he’s awake, and he stands and walks, before he’s thought the better of it, back to his room.

Once he’s standing right next to the bed it occurs to him that this is a really bad idea on at least three different levels, but he doesn’t have time to do anything about that because Steve’s noticed him, and he doesn’t even blink, just rolls over, pats the space on the bed he’s vacated, and lifting the sheet for Danny, gestures with his head.

Danny wants to pause. Should pause. Should  _at least_  fucking pause.

But he doesn’t.

He just climbs right in, and takes way too obvious a deep breath, letting it out on far too loaded a sigh. But Steve doesn’t seem to notice. He seems to have fallen almost instantly back asleep. And Danny doesn’t want to follow, thinks that if he falls asleep that easily with Steve in his bed there’ll be no going back from it. From admitting it. At least to himself. But of course he falls swiftly and soundly asleep.

As if his new habit of pleasuring himself to thoughts of the man now in his bed wasn’t bad enough.

 

He has several nights to get the heck over it after that, because things slip a little bit backwards into some older form of normalcy, with each of them at their own homes at night. And Danny does it partly out of an attempt to break himself of the habit, and partly because he feels like a complete fool, but he regrets it as soon as the clean sheets are on the bed and he misses the smell painfully.

It’s only a few nights more before Steve’s back on his sofa, and he’s washed those sheets as well—and don’t think he doesn’t half wonder if Steve will notice, will realize that Danny’s smell has gone from them. He  _more_  than half wonders, actually. But he tries not to admit that either.

And he almost makes it through the night. 

_Almost_.

When Steve sees him, he doesn’t turn on the TV. He doesn’t pat the sofa. He just stands, reaches his hand out toward Danny, who, maybe because it startles him, maybe because he’s dreamed about this (and maybe because he’s not entirely certain this  _isn’t_  a dream), he takes it. And Steve leads him back to his room, back to his bed, and he crawls in, pats the space next to him, and Danny does hesitate. But only for a moment, because the call of sleep is a powerful one, and he loves sleep.

When a voice deep inside tries to warn him he’s heading down a very dangerous path, he tells it to fuck off. Because this may be inviting disaster. But it’s also inviting sleep. And that’s too much for him to resist.

The next several days Steve winds up at his own house, in his own bed, and Danny lies awake in his bed for an increasingly short period of time each night before giving in, closing his eyes, taking his dick in his own hand, imagining the hand’s not his, and digging himself into a deeper and deeper pit of despair from which he’s not at all certain he’ll be able to escape.

Friday night, after a long and grueling day (made even longer and more grueling both by the lack of sleep and by the not-lack of sexual tension filling Danny’s body at every turn), Steve suggests beer and pizza at his, and surfing the next morning before Danny has to get the kids for the weekend. And he wants to say no, he  _should_  say no. The house is a mess, his sheets smell like Steve and spunk and disaster and gloom. Hell, the whole house probably smells like that. And there’s no food in his fridge. And he can’t face it. Not when Steve’s grinning so sweetly, thinking he’s offering what a good friend would. Having no fucking idea Danny doesn’t  _want_  him to be a good friend. Not now that he’s become consumed by the idea he could be  _so much more_.

So he says  _yes_ , and he stops at the store to get chocolate ice cream and bourbon, because if he isn’t going to get to masturbate tonight he sure as fuck needs chocolate and booze.

Steve looks slightly sideways at Danny when he plops his purchases down on the counter, leaving them for Steve to put away while he opens the wine Steve’s set out to go with the pizza. Evidently he’s already guessed Danny’s mood requires something stronger than beer.

“The good bourbon, eh?” Steve observes, half under his breath, as though he’s concerned pointing it out might upset Danny. He’s probably right to be ill at ease. It’s the brand they typically only get each other for birthdays or Christmas. Even Danny’s not sure what he means by it.

Danny shrugs, pours two hearty servings of the Syrah, clinks his to Steve’s glass still sitting on the counter, and gulps it down.

“It’s been a week,” he says dismissively, then pretends to consider the array of menus Steve’s laid out. Unsurprised by the prominent placement of the Indian food he knows Steve prefers, Danny half chuckles, but it’s bitter in his mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time Steve’s bait and switched him... said  _come for beer and pizza_  and they’ve ended up drinking wine and eating curry. 

But Danny’s not allowing it tonight. It’s not that he minds Indian. It’s more the power play it represents, and given the current state of things in Danny’s briefs, he’s not having it. He pulls a menu from the bottom of the stack—and who even has paper menus anymore, really, Steven. It’s a fusion Asian place, and it’s pretentious, but in an earthy kind of way, and the teriyaki salmon really is quite fantastic, and there’s something about it not being Danny’s favorite and not being Steve’s favorite either that suits his mood. So he grabs a pen from the junk drawer, circles his choice, shoves the menu towards Steve, and heads out to the table and chairs on the lawn thinking to himself that Steve can fucking deal.

He’s calmed down a bit by the time Steve joins him, thankfully bringing the bottle of wine with him, standing by Danny’s side and refilling his empty glass, and  _fuck_. He doesn’t need Steve being quite so solicitous this evening, he really doesn’t.

“I’ll go pick the food up,” Steve says, setting the bottle down carefully, within Danny’s reach. “Just wanted to check on you first....” And the way he trails off, Danny knows, he’s hoping Danny will say something. 

He takes a breath as though he might, then lets it out on a sigh. “Thanks, babe. Sorry I’m being such a jerk.”

Steve smiles. “I’m used to it,” he replies, putting his warm hand on Danny’s shoulder, leaving it a bit too long. “I’ll be right back, buddy.”

And he’s gone before Danny stirs himself enough to reply, so his whispered “ _God I want you_ ” is heard only by the ocean, which seems to understand Danny’s frustration, as it unceasingly reaches for the land just out of reach.

It’s too perfect a fucking metaphor for how Danny feels. Steve is so close, all the time, so goddamn close. And yet always just a little too far away.

Steve brings the food out to Danny when he gets back. Not in the take-out containers, but on real dishes, with real silverware, and cloth napkins. And that feels frivolous to Danny, feels like something extra, and it makes him think Steve’s treading softly around him, being careful for some reason. And that puts him a little bit on edge... not that he wasn’t  _already_  on edge.

But Steve’s also brought out a fresh bottle of wine. Which is either a very good thing or a really bad thing, considering Danny’s already basically finished off the one Steve left out here when he’d gone to get the food. Danny should  _not_  get drunk tonight. Surfing with a hangover isn’t his favorite thing, although the salt water and feeling of freedom always makes him feel better. But more than that, Danny’s perilously close to the edge of admitting things to Steve that he really ought not admit. And too much booze in his system isn’t going to make that better. It’ll just make it all a  _whole lot_  worse.

So maybe he’s a bit angry with Steve when he opens that new bottle. And it’s a fruiter red than the first Syrah, but it’s still a red, and technically that goes okay with the food—with the sweet, tangy, umami-ness. And it’s not till he’s gulped half a glass of it down that it occurs to him that it was odd that Steve chose red in the first place. 

Typically if Steve was wanting Indian food, he’d have gone for a fruity white, maybe a Sauv Blanc. But he’d put out that Syrah. Which he knows Danny favors. And more significantly (as Steve well knows), while whites make Danny bubbly and light, reds mellow him... and make him what Steve’s referred to more than once as  _sweet_. 

Which might have as much to do with Steve himself, and his own reactions to different types of booze. Because the times they’ve both gotten drunk on red have been the times they’ve gotten the most...  _into_ each other. Both of the times they’ve almost kissed—the two times that are etched into Danny’s memory, that is, though it’s possible there are others he was too drunk to remember—have been the times they’ve got past their third bottle of red between them. 

Most of the first bottle tonight’s gone into Danny. A Danny with an empty stomach, no less. And this all occurs to him, between bites of the sticky-sweet-salty fish, while he examines Steve’s face as he eats his own beef dish—scooping up sauced bites of rice with his spoon, focusing on the food and  _not_  on Danny in a way that feels slightly unusual. Which in itself probably says something. Says that Danny’s used to Steve’s focus being on  _him_ , when they have their Friday evening meals together (just the two of them and not with the rest of the team as they often do). Although to be fair, even when it is the whole team, Steve’s focus is more often than not almost exclusively on Danny as well. 

So maybe it’s the fact that Steve’s not meeting his eyes as Danny’s wondering about Steve’s beverage choice this evening, coupled with the real dishes and cloth napkins—and he’s going to blame the switch in wine for this, because yes, it’s still red, but the push of it is different, and starting to eat has emphasized the fact that Danny’s got a lot of wine in a mostly empty stomach.... Well, he’s going to blame  _something._ Because he knows even before the words come out—so it’s not like he can pretend to be shocked that he says them. He can only sit there and wait for Steve to react to his whispered “Are you trying to seduce me?”

And, okay. Maybe he was aiming for shock value. Catch Steve off guard, watch him flail as he stumbles to find his footing, being so directly called out in this, whatever  _this_  is. Whatever Steve’s up to here tonight. But he doesn’t even look up. His focus stays on his food, and he just chuckles slightly, as though he’s amused, but unsurprised by Danny’s words.

“Eat your food, Danno,” he says fondly. And then he does look up. Just a soft glance, one that feels meant to reassure, to comfort, to calm.... And Danny absolutely does not know what to make of that.

But his salmon is good, and he is keenly aware that he needs food in his belly. Because he is not planning on cutting back on the drinking. Not after that. And because he’s starting to feel like he needs to push this and see where it goes. And he’s buzzed enough to want to give into that familiar feeling of  _well, if this fucks everything up at least I’ll have tried._ That resigned sense of bravado you really can only give into with enough alcohol flowing through your veins. Alcohol or a whole lot of adrenaline. Like near-death-experience levels of adrenaline. 

“If you say so, babe,” Danny mutters into his glass as he breathes in that fruity, earthy sweetness, and when the rich juiciness hits the back of his tongue it makes him think of other sensations he’d like to have in his mouth. He thinks he manages to hide his groan in his slurp of the wine, but he’s not sure. Steve at least doesn’t react, so Danny decides to pretend it didn’t happen. 

Only problem is he can’t seem to convince his dick to play along. 

Well that’s just great. He’s sitting outside on a beautiful evening in paradise, eating delicious take out, drinking fantastic wine, not two feet away from the sexiest man on the island, with a growing hard-on in his damn tight-fitting work trousers, and part of him’s actually enjoying the press of the zipper against his swelling dick, because the pain of it is gratifying. But part of him wants to whimper in frustration, push the table over, fucking tackle Steve into the grass, and suck him off till he shouts Danny’s name. 

_Goddamn fucking stupid ass situation you’ve got yourself into here, Williams_ , he scolds himself. But it’s far too little, far too late. 

And he really doesn’t seem to mind. Like, at all.

They eat in silence, which is ordinarily a comfortable thing with them but it’s just too tense tonight, too dang scented with sex—at least to Danny it is. He’s not got a goddamn clue how it seems to Steve. 

The food at least is soothing. Danny gulps it down with too much of the wine, and alright, he’s hoping it will quell the situation in his pants, he really fucking is, because he can’t stay at the table all night, and as soon as he stands up, Steve will see. That’s if he hasn’t already noticed.... Which, alright, would mean Steve looking at Danny’s crotch, and he’s not sure what he thinks of that. Not at all sure what he thinks of the likelihood of Steve being interested in or aware of his state of arousal. He’s not honestly sure what he thinks about Steve’s awareness of  _any_  of this.

Danny’s not an ego maniac (not like some people he knows), but he’s also not exactly self-deprecating. Yes, it’s fair to say his confidence when it comes to his looks, his desirability as a partner for a romantic situation, hasn’t always been the best. But he’s mellowed into it since he hit the big 40. That tends to happen. You start to worry a lot less about what others think and sink into being more comfortable in your own skin. And Danny’s really enjoyed that. He’s enjoyed feeling more at ease just as he is, not trying so hard to be something more, something other, something different. It’s also enabled him to appreciate Steve more. Which, frankly, is probably where this all began. As he eased into greater comfort with himself, he found (almost as though it were somehow connected) that his attraction to, his desire for Steve had grown. Slowly, gradually, and then all at once, until it felt as though it would overwhelm him with its intensity.

Which is how it is now, sitting here, thinking about the likelihood of Steve being aware of the swelling in his pants.

The point is, Danny’s comfortable with the plausibility of Steve being at least attracted enough to him to not be unaffected if he  _did_  notice. And the fact that Steve’s eating more slowly than usual is giving Danny ideas that perhaps Steve  _has_  noticed and  _is_  affected.

But pretty soon Danny hits that  _buzzed enough to start letting the thread slip_  point. And when he turns his chair towards the ocean, kicking back, still covered enough by the table, he misses when Steve takes advantage of his turned back to get up from the table. It’s a while before he’s back—with bowls of the ice cream, as if Danny needs a sensual experience like chocolate ice cream right now to improve the situation. Yep.

Strangely, though, it helps. Maybe because it gives him an outlet. Sucking on the spoon, making little sounds of contentment. And Steve’s swung his chair to the other side of the table, so they’re on opposite sides, but both facing out to sea. The sun’s mostly down now, the half moon sparkling on the water, faint but clear, and sometimes when he’s drunk enough Danny can see why people think this place is paradise.

By the time the sun’s all the way down, his dick has receded as well, and maybe the wine’s finally settled into his blood, because it’s not just his body that’s gone soft. It’s his heart as well. So much so that when Steve suggests they head in and maybe watch something, Danny’s response, as he stands, is along the lines of “Of course, babe, anything you like,” and is accompanied by Danny pulling Steve into a side-hug, and patting him on the chest, leaving his hand there, grabbing his left pec with what might be a little  _too_  much of a squeeze.

He can’t tell if it startles Steve and he’s not sure if he likes it or just tolerates it, but he feels a rumbling of some sort—amusement or desire, he’s not sure which—deep within Steve’s chest. And there’s something about feeling that vibration that’s so intimate, and Danny wants more of it tonight, needs more. So when Steve sits him on the sofa, hands him the remote, and then heads back out to get the dishes and the rest of the wine, Danny strives to take up as much room on the sofa as he can so that Steve will have no choice but to end up sitting close. It’s something Steve ordinarily does, which interestingly is something that hasn’t really seemed important before now. Suddenly it seems very important indeed.

“I think we’d better just stick with wine at this point,” Steve says, placing the bottle and their glasses on the coffee table before carrying the ice cream bowls into the kitchen. When he walks back into the room, he clicks on the outside lights, then turns off the inside ones, ignoring Danny’s raised eyebrow at his attempt at mood lighting.

Danny’s sofa maneuver worked, and Steve settles himself easily against Danny, wrapping an arm around him, and falling just short of pulling him close. Not that it matters, because as soon as he’s stilled, Danny leans into him, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, and sighing softly, and maybe he imagines it, but he thinks he feels the barest hint of a shiver from Steve in response.

He’s pulled up Steve’s library of Marvel films. “In honor of Stan Lee,” he says softly. He’s not going to pretend to be unaffected by the passing of the man who’s done so much to make being an inclusive, enthusiastic geek utterly and fantastically cool. (Especially not after as much red wine as he’s had. He did mention it makes him soft and sweet, right?)

It surprises, though, and warms him, when Steve tugs Danny closer in response, and maybe the wine’s gotten to him as well. “Great idea, buddy,” he says. And Danny knows which film Steve will pick. “Start at the beginning?” He suggests hopefully.

Danny nods easily in agreement and if he’s secretly thrilled by the choice, he isn’t going to let on. He presses play on the first Captain America movie, and settles even more against Steve as the familiar opening sequence begins.

They don’t make it all the way through before they drift gently off to sleep, but not until they’ve made a handful of observations about the depth and sweetness of the bond between Bucky and Steve. Which possibly explains why Danny dreams about sweet boys kissing, and wakes even harder than he’d been earlier.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters, as he stumbles to wakefulness, his pants uncomfortably tight once more, angry Hydra agents blowing things up on the screen. Which doesn’t remind him of certain other things he’d like to blow. Nope. Not at all. Why would it. Oh my god _, shut the fuck up_.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He’s got two choices, he figures. Both bite. But he decides to go with the one that’s the least potentially humiliating, and before Steve rouses from his slumber, Danny hightails it for the stairs, bound for a shower, and the fastest relieving of himself he can manage. It seriously takes mere moments, which is kind of terrifying. But it’s not till he’s out and dry and dressed in a pair of Steve’s lounge shorts that Steve walks in on him.

Danny can’t quite tell if Steve’s got a read on the situation, but he certainly seems pleased to see Danny in his bedroom, clean, and half naked. He nods to the bed.

“Go on, I’ll shower and join you.”

And fuck if that isn’t the best sentence Danny’s heard, like, ever. He almost doesn’t care how Steve means it. Which is totally a goddamn lie, because of course he cares how Steve means it. But he’s going to take it in whatever form it comes. (He  _is,_ however, suddenly keenly aware that he’s far more sober than he might wish to be.)

Steve takes longer than he would ordinarily take in the shower. Yes, Danny is familiar with the length of a typical Steve shower. And it’s not, by the way, strictly speaking Naval regulation anymore. It  _was_  eight years ago, but as Steve’s mellowed (hey don’t laugh, he  _has_  mellowed) his showers have gotten longer. And again, yes, Danny has noticed that. Shush. But Steve takes even longer than usual, and alright, there’s part of Danny that almost wants gets up to see if he’s right about  _why_.

Partly because waiting—and wondering— is keeping him from getting comfortable in the bed. He shifts and he fidgets, and he realizes he doesn’t know which side of the bed Steve prefers. He tries smelling the pillows, but they both smell like Steve, and he’s very glad he took care of things in his pants because otherwise he’d be in serious trouble right now. Because somehow it didn’t quite occur to him, when he’d crawled into Steve’s bed, that he was crawling into  _Steve’s bed_. Well, he’s aware of it now, and he feels as awkward as a baby goat trying to walk for the first time.  

So he sits in the middle of the bed, not even really back against the pillows, just kind of plops right in the middle and sits there cross legged, watching the bathroom door, and trying not to think about what might or might not be about to happen. He fails utterly of course, and gives up and falls back on the bed, right across it sort of diagonally, sprawled in frustration and confusion... and longing. Oh, so goddamn much  _longing_.

He misses it, therefore, when Steve does finally open the door, and he’s mostly glad that he doesn’t have that initial reaction to analyze—what Steve’s face might have looked like, seeing Danny sprawled out on his bed. He’s not sure he wants to know. 

He keeps his eyes averted while Steve dries off and gets dressed. Not that they haven’t seen each other naked before. Danny knows. Full well. What that body looks like in its entirety. Full. Fucking. Well. He does not need a reminder, thanks.

There’s a soft chuckle as the bed dips. “You gonna let me in, buddy?” And it’s infuriating, absolutely maddening, because he cannot tell at all what Steve’s agenda is here. He’s got Danny in his bed. He seems at the very least amused and willing. 

Danny just has no fucking idea  _how_  willing.

Guessing the side Steve got in on would be his preferred side, Danny grunts and slides over. Just a little. He’s rewarded by another warm chuckle, and even better, by Steve’s warm, damp body pressing right up against him.

“Bed hog, are ya? Good to know.”

The words are spoken softly, and right against Danny’s neck, as Steve nestles in. But his arms haven’t come around him. They’re pressed firmly at Steve’s own side. It’s the oddest mix of platonic and practical and... suggestive, maybe is the best way of putting it. He wants to ask  _Why are we doing this?_  but he doesn’t dare. Questioning it is only going to lead to fracturing whatever tentative accord they have going with the whole sleeping together thing. Besides. Danny already knows he sleeps better when Steve’s next to him, and he’s already fading towards slumber. And yep, partly that’s the wine. But sleep really is one of Danny’s favorite things, and he’s not so good at it on his own, and he knows he should take advantage of this. So he does.

And he sleeps really fucking fantastically.

But what’s even better—well, almost better—is waking up to the smell of coffee, and before he even opens his eyes, he knows Steve’s in bed, sitting up, drinking coffee.

“There better be coffee for me...” he mumbles around his morning mouth, and there’s that warm, soft, fond chuckle again. He wonders how much of Steve’s softness from the night before was even from the red wine and how much was just, somehow,  _him_.

“You gotta sit up first, buddy. Can’t drink coffee lying down.”

“Maybe  _you_  can’t. You’re not trying hard enough.” But he sits, letting his eyes flicker across to Steve, who’s pulled on a tee shirt, much to Danny’s disappointment, and yet the way it stretches across his chest, pulling up at the arms, exposing those bits of tattoo... well, it’s not an unpleasant sight, alright?

“You still up for surfing, or do you want to take it easy this morning before you have to go get the kids?”

And Danny groans. “Shit. I should go home and clean the house. Grace’ll be mad at me for the state it’s in. Not to mention no food.”

There’s a pause, and Danny worries, stupidly, that he’s upset Steve. But when he looks over at him, that’s not what he sees. 

“I could... help?”

He says it tentatively. As though he’s expecting to be rejected, but also maybe hopeful he won’t be? He sounds like he means it. And that... well, Danny’s really not sure what to make of it. Ordinarily he’d just dismiss it, insist he should do it himself, feeling guilty for wanting the help, and needing to reject it because of that. But maybe because he’s still so soft and warm, maybe because he’s not ready to not have Steve near him, the strain that usually holds him back from accepting help just snaps.

“I... actually, I’d really love that. If you don’t mind....”

Steve’s delighted expression seems to indicate that he more than not minds. “I’m happy to help, buddy, you know that.” And he reaches over to the bedside table, grabs the waiting mug of coffee and hands it to Danny. “Drink up and let’s get going, I’ll make breakfast there.”

And Danny really wants more time cozy in bed with Steve,  _god does he_. But probably it’s not the wisest idea anyway... and when Steve gets up and slips out of his sleep shorts, exposing his glorious bare butt right in Danny’s line of sight, only to pull on a pair of faded blue boxer briefs, giving that little adjustment jiggle as he does, Danny knows. Lingering would be dangerous. He buries his nose in his mug, breathes in the coffee as though it will help, and tries not to savor that bare buttock image for too long.

 

Steve’s a great help around the house. Of course, Danny already knows this. Steve also evidently knows Danny’s pantry and fridge at least as well if not better than Danny does, because when they stop at the store, Steve does Danny’s shopping in less than half the usual time, which gives them time enough to clean first and then eat a nice breakfast before Danny needs to go get the kids. 

When Danny leaves to pick up Charlie and Grace, Steve’s still at the house, saying he’ll switch out the last load of laundry before he heads off home to do his own chores, and for one long moment, Danny thinks about asking him to stay. To spend the weekend with him and the kids. He loves those times when it happens, when Steve pops by when Danny has the kids, joins them on outings, invites them over to his place. It’s almost like being some version of a family— _ohana_ , he thinks. Where blood and legal status mean less than feeling and affection. And Danny wants that this weekend. So goddamn much. But he doesn’t trust himself right now. And he doesn’t want to be battling parts of his anatomy which he’s not entirely sure he can trust to not betray his attraction to, his desire for, his need of  _Steve_. So he thanks him, probably a little too abruptly, and runs out the door before he can be weak and cave and beg him to stay.

Danny spends the whole drive to Rachel’s hoping Steve’ll still be there when they get back.

He’s not, of course, and it’s a good thing, Danny knows it is, and he focuses on his kids, which is never hard to do, and thanks in great part to Steve’s help and his thoughtful shopping, they actually have one of the better weekends they’ve had in a long time.

Except for the fact that Danny doesn’t sleep at all.

He tries to hide it, come Monday morning. But he gets to work late, having forgotten the kids lunches and having needed to go back home for them, and then drop them off at the school. And he makes himself stop and get an extra large coffee before he heads into the office, and Steve looks up from his desk when Danny walks in, and he knows Steve’s spotted the huge drink in his hand, knows he’ll read that correctly. Which he does, and Danny spends most of the day dodging Steve’s alternating looks—worried one moment, something close to disappointed the next. 

When the end of the day comes, Danny’s afraid Steve might invite himself over, and Danny cannot cope with that tonight. Tonight, Danny very much needs a huge glass of bourbon, and a very long hot shower, accompanied by some quality time with his hand.

He doesn’t watch Steve’s reaction as he bolts for the door at the end of the day, barely saying  _See you tomorrow, babe_  as he flees. He feels guilty all the way home, but he shuts it out, shuts it all out, in a downed shot followed by another and another, then one taken with him into the shower, where he stays until the water’s gone cold and his dick’s almost sore from the abuse. He winds up, cold and wet, sitting on the bed, feeling utterly hollow.

At least he sleeps.

 

They slip back into their regular pattern after that. But Danny steadfastly refuses to get up and go out to Steve when he wakes in the night, and maybe he hopes it’ll convince Steve he’s sleeping, or maybe he’s hoping Steve’ll get tired of waiting and show himself into Danny’s room on his own. But he doesn’t. 

The weekend comes, and plans to surf get swept away by a case, and Danny’s too tired and too crabby by the end of it to be up for the fucking mind game this sleeping thing’s become. But Steve doesn’t give Danny a choice. He tells the team to take Monday off, and he grabs Danny by the arm, shoves him in the Camaro, and drives them back to Steve’s. 

“Shower. Get in bed. I’ll be up in a bit with some food.” 

Steve’s using his op voice still, and he’s never done that before—not at home, certainly not with the words  _in bed_. So Danny can be excused if a shiver escapes his control, which he’s certain Steve picks up on, if the smug grin that flashes across his face is anything to go by.

Danny obeys. And he’s too tired to be aroused even if Steve were to join him in bed totally naked, so he skips jerking off in favor of being horizontal sooner. He takes the precaution of adding a tee to the faded navy sleep shorts he grabs, and it’s soft, and it’s nearly worn through, and it smells like Steve, and Danny contemplates borrowing it because it relaxes him, comforts him, soothes him, and he thinks it’d help him sleep when Steve’s not there.

He hears Steve’s tread on the stairs, and he stops smelling the shirt, letting it down over his stomach—which he suddenly realizes has been growling. 

Steve halts in the doorway, a soft, warm expression on his face. 

“Looks good on you,” he says, pausing as though he’s taking a mental picture, before entering the room and placing the tray of food on the bed. “I wasn’t sure which you’d want, so I made one of each. I’ll be quick, but go ahead and eat, okay?” 

And he strips off, tossing his clothes in the direction of the hamper, most of them making it on top, his socks and briefs falling to the floor. 

Danny means to look away, plans to be absorbed in deciding which sandwich he wants, but he forgets, and he gets a nice view of Steve as he turns toward the bathroom, and he instantly regrets not having taken care of himself when he could, because Steve’s dick is more than a little swollen, jutting out from his body at fairly near a ninety degree angle. And he’s not bothering to hide it at all. In fact, given the fact that he could easily have undressed in the bathroom, Danny can only imagine Steve  _wanted_  him to notice. 

Whelp. Notice he sure fucking has. 

Sandwiches are suddenly a lot less on Danny’s mind, and he sits there, in shock, enthralled, and hungry for dick more than for food. By the time Steve re-emerges, bare moments later, Danny’s nearly fully erect, and he’s more than a little afraid he’s about to start leaking.

Making absolutely no attempt whatsoever to hide his now full-on hard on, Steve practically struts to his dresser, pulls on a pair of tight fitting knit boxers which do nothing to disguise his fullness, skips the tee entirely, and plops none too gently on the bed next to Danny. 

“Wanna split, then?” He asks, nodding to the sandwiches on the plate, and fuck yeah Danny wants to be split open on that glorious cock in Steve’s shorts. He nods vaguely, and Steve picks up half a sandwich and hands it to Danny. “Eat up, buddy.” And if Steve’s not completely messing with him at this point, Danny doesn’t know what to think, because Steve gets mayo on his hand, and you really don’t need to stick the whole finger in your mouth to lick a tiny bit of mayonnaise off your knuckle. You really don’t. 

Danny tries, valiantly, to subsume his sexual longing in the eating of the really quite delicious sandwiches. Steve’s upped his sandwich game recently, and Danny likes to think the credit’s down to him. Little things, like Steve’s former reluctance to using enough meat, resistance to using the good bread, lack of savvy about the best combination of spreads... wanting to put things like avocado and sprouts on the damn thing. He’s come around admirably, and it thrills Danny more than he’d tell Steve. It’s silly, really. To mind so much about someone’s sandwich-making habits. But he can’t help it, it’s part of who he is, part of where he comes from, part of his heritage. And Steve switching sides in the sandwich battle means a lot to Danny.

And maybe a lot of this is that he really was starving, and there’s more of a connection between the need for food and the need for sex than he’s been mindful of—which wouldn’t surprise him all that much. But while he’s enjoying his sandwich, his body calms, soothed by the textures, the flavors, the familiar feelings evoked by the consumption of quality food. Steve’s commented on it before, Danny really is very much about the food. Not  _all_. Not like Steve’d insisted. But yeah, alright, a lot.

He’s been watching Danny eat, Steve has. Danny’s very aware of that. When they finish and Steve stands to pick the tray up, Steve’s no longer fully hard, but he’s not gone completely soft, and it makes Danny realize he  _has_. Which, considering the more he ate the more he realized how fucking exhausted he is, isn’t really shocking. As soon as the tray is on the dresser, and Steve’s back in bed (and really they should do something about teeth, but damn if Danny has anything within him to even stand) Danny knows he’s halfway asleep already. And Steve can tell, of course. Probably he’s well aware of Danny’s propensity to need food first then sleep after a two-day case like they’re coming off of. But Danny’s fallen over in the bed, and Steve tugs the blanket up over them, slides up right against Danny’s side (close but not so close Danny can gauge his level of interest) and nuzzles against Danny’s neck like he’d done before.

“Now, sleep,” he whispers, and Danny does.

He stirs slightly awake at some later point, when it’s still dark out, and Steve’s pressed more solidly at Danny’s side. Danny’s body has given into it at some point, because his hand is resting on Steve’s hip. He sighs but doesn’t move his hand, just rolls slightly on his side away from Steve, and when Steve reflexively scoots even more against him, Danny has to suppress a shiver as he feels Steve’s half-hard length slot perfectly between Danny’s cheeks. And he might imagine that should keep him awake, but strangely it sends him rapidly back to sleep, almost with a shove, as though perhaps he’s afraid it won’t be real if he doesn’t sleep. Or as if there’s a deeper level of contentment at work here, floating Danny away on some ridiculous cloud of bliss and hope.

The next time he wakes, it’s light out, but only just, and Steve’s got his arm wrapped around Danny’s chest, his grip more than firm, almost constricting, and Danny should be panicked by it, should feel trapped—he’s not exactly fond of being constrained. But he loves this. Loves how possessive it feels, how unintentionally Steve’s showing his hand in his sleep, how safe and protected he is in Steve’s arms, and he drifts back asleep with a smile on his face.

The third time Danny floats to consciousness, the sun is bright in the room, Steve’s arm is still wrapped tightly around him, and bristly stubble is nuzzling the back of his neck, hot breath puffing against the sensitive skin there, and when Danny scoots his ass further back against Steve, he’s not disappointed.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Steve mumbles into Danny’s skin, the  _mmm_  of “morning” drawn out and feeling close to a kiss against his neck.

Danny chuckles, low and soft, and he adjusts the alignment of his butt so it lines up perfectly. Steve presses more firmly against him, tugging him closer with his arm as well, and the sounds Danny’d held back from before come out now. Little grunting groans, needy and wanting, but also pleased and contented. He feels Steve’s answering low rumble of laughter combined with growls of desire released as vibrations against Danny’s skin. And Steve’s hand slides down Danny’s chest, slipping easily beneath the waistband on his loose fitting sleep shorts, grabbing hold of Danny’s swelling dick. He bucks into it, totally unable to control his body’s reaction to being actually gripped by the hand he’s so often fantasized about. Something in him protests, tries to insist he should be cautious here, be careful with the dangerous territory he knows they’re entering with this—although, really, haven’t they been in dangerous territory for some time now? And mostly Danny can’t care, can’t do anything other than give himself fully and completely into what he’s wanted for so long now.

Besides, he’s deliciously hard and leaking, and he can feel wetness where Steve’s thrusting gently against him, and  _thinking_  really is not going to happen anyway, thanks though. Instead, Danny’s hand—still on Steve’s hip—pulls him even closer, and Steve whimpers against Danny’s back, hot kisses following, tongue licking swirls against the slightly stubble-rubbed skin, and his thrusts grow more insistent, his tugs on Danny’s cock strengthen, and Danny can’t take it, he turns in Steve’s embrace, shoving Steve’s boxers down with one hand, grabbing hold of the back of Steve’s head with the other, and crushing their mouths together in a frantic kiss, not giving a shit about the stale, rough taste, not caring about the fact he’s going to last about five more seconds, and almost as soon as his hand is wrapped around Steve’s long, elegant dick, he feels himself spill over Steve’s hand, gasping into his mouth, then biting along his lip as he stutters, yanking once, twice, three times, and Steve shouts and spurts into Danny’s hand.

“God, I wanted to do that last night,” Steve pants, his head lowered, Danny pressing kisses to his forehead as they both come down from the sudden intensity of their orgasms. “I was going to offer, after we ate,” he huffs a breathless laugh. “But you kinda feel asleep on me.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “You feed me like that when I’m that tired, you know I’m going to drift off.”

“Yeah,” Steve admits, slightly sheepish. “I just hoped I’d get to help you a little more....”

Danny lifts Steve’s chin. “You  _did_.”

Steve’s eyes flash green in the bright light, the realization instantly clear. “You haven’t been sleeping.” It’s not a question, and Danny doesn’t bother to deny it. “But you stopped coming out to the living room....” Steve pauses, perhaps hoping for an answer, but Danny doesn’t offer one. “Why?” Steve wonders, looking into Danny’s eyes as though he might find the answer if he could see deep enough.

“Because I wanted it too much?” It’s what comes first to his mind, and probably it’s remarkably accurate.

Steve’s eyes close, and he lets out a sigh. “ _Danny_.” Danny hears the hurt.

“Well, I didn’t know how you felt. You were being all practical about it...  _helpful_.”

“I was  _trying_  to be more than that.”

“Yeah?” It’s uncertain, and a little regretful.

“Evidently not very well.”

Danny moves to get more comfortable, to reassure Steve, but as soon as he does he realizes they need to clean up. “Shower?” He suggests, and Steve nods, grimacing when they pull apart, tugging the sheets off the bed as they go.

When the hot water hits them, and they slide together under the spray, Steve confesses. “I’ve jerked off in here so many times, to thoughts of you... I can’t believe you’re in here with me now,  _god_.” He’s growing hard again, and Danny feels a thrill spill thorough his belly as Steve presses him against the cold tile.

“I did, too.” Danny says between kisses, which, now they’ve mint-a-fied their breaths with mouthwash, delve deeper and more intense. “In here, the other night,” he reaches for Steve’s dick, pulling him closer, wrapping his other hand behind, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Steve’s ass. “And lots of times at home in my bed when it smelled of you.”

Steve gasps at the admission, bites at Danny’s lips, licking into his mouth, bucking against him. “I...  _shit_ Danny, that’s...  _god that’s hot_.”

“Oh yeah? Like that do you?” His fingers dig deeper, probably bruising, but Steve just groans and falls more against Danny’s chest, leaving room so they can keep their hands busy on each other’s cocks, which Steve’s protecting from the shower spray with his back. 

“I wasn’t sure, until last night, I wasn’t sure you really wanted it. Especially once you stopped getting up in the night. But last night, I....”

“You what?”

“Well, I knew  _something_  was up.”

“Yeah,  _you_ ,” Danny can’t help but point out. 

“God you have no idea, do you. How fucking sexy you are. In my bed. You should always be in my bed, you look so damn good in it.”

Danny feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from their hands, up to Steve’s face, and he gasps at the heavy  _want_  he sees there. “Babe,” he whispers hoarsely, pressing off the shower wall, and leaning into Steve for a kiss, both his hands coming up to hold Steve’s face still.

“Jesus, Danny, what did you expect? And then when I came out from my shower and you weren’t exactly unmoved....” 

Steve’s taken over stroking both their dicks, and the feel of them sliding together, even as the water hits them and washes some of the slickness away, it’s almost more than Danny can stand. He chokes on his laugh.

“What the fuck did you expect, you jerk? The way you flaunted yourself at me?”

Steve grunts, pausing his hands, looking into Danny’s eyes. “I wanted you to know the effect you have on me.”

“Well, yeah, it was fairly clear.”

Steve squeezes them roughly and Danny nearly falls against him. “So it all worked out in the end,” he pants, and Danny can tell Steve’s close, and he is as well. And he wants to draw it out, but it’s not exactly comfortable in the small shower, so he shifts his hips closer, putting his hands to Steve’s shoulders, moving him to block the spray of water again, and Steve gasps, speeding up.

Danny lets his head fall back, his breath coming in little huffs as he starts to float away on the sensations Steve’s drawing from him, not just in his dick, but over every inch of wet, exposed skin, tingling with shivery tension and the fear his knees will give out. But Steve either guesses or his Ninja reflexes see it coming, and he grabs Danny hastily by the arm as they both spurt weakly over his fingers, his spunk coated hand coming up to hold Danny as soon as he can. Still, they stumble awkwardly against the tile wall, and laughs are soon muffled by kisses that grow faint as the water brings them back to reality.

“Guess maybe we’re a little old for that,” Steve pants softly.

“Speak for yourself, babe,” Danny swats feebly at him. “Feed me and I’ll go again, just maybe horizontally this time.”

Steve chuckles and turns the water off, having rinsed them as well as he can manage. “That’s exactly what I mean. And I was hoping  _you’d_  cook for  _me_ , old man.”

They ease themselves out of the shower, and Steve uses his towel to gently and thoroughly dry Danny, only then running the towel over his own body, while Danny watches, certain the expression on his face is as soft as his dick now is, hanging spent between his legs. 

Steve tosses a pair of clean sweats at Danny, takes one for himself. “What’s that look for?” He asks, amused, finding shirts for them both as well.

Danny shrugs, not sure he can explain it. “Dunno... you called me  _old man_. I guess....” He trails off, stepping closer to Steve, running his hand up Steve’s arm, looking into those playful eyes with a fondness he knows he’s not disguising at all. “I think I like the implication behind that jab.”

“That we’ll be old together, you mean?” Steve asks, grinning broadly. “Me too.” And he bends down to press a firm kiss to Danny’s lips. “So, you really think you can go again if we eat?”

“I think we’ll only know if we try, babe.” 

Steve chuckles, puts his hand on Danny’s arm, pulling him close, and heading for the stairs. “I like the way you think, buddy.”

“Is this what you had in mind?” Danny asks, as they enter the kitchen. “When you gave the team the day off today? Sex and cooking?”

“Sounds like a perfect day off to me,” Steve says, over his shoulder as he scoops coffee grounds into the machine and presses start. 

“No it doesn’t,” Danny counters. “Your perfect day off has to include explosions or jumping off buildings or swimming with sharks or something equally stupid.” He’s gathering things to make a frittata, and he knows Steve’s smug about the fact that he chose eggs over pancakes, but hell, he needs protein if they’re going to have as much sex as he fully intends on having.

Steve stops his progress, stepping close, placing himself between Danny and the counter. “Maybe I used to think that,” he says, resting his hands on Danny’s hips, settling back against the counter. “But not anymore.” His tone’s that warm, glowing intonation he’s been using lately, and it makes Danny tingly, as he realizes the meaning behind it.

He settles his body against Steve’s, holding himself up by his hands on the edge of the tile behind Steve. “Is that so? What changed your mind, if I might ask?”

“Mmmm.” Steve tucks his thumbs inside the waistband of Danny’s sweats, yanks gently, pulling Danny more tightly against him. “This infuriatingly adorable blond I met eight years ago who slowly worked his way inside my heart until I couldn’t think of anything else.”

The words hit Danny harder than he’s expecting, and his elbows buckle, bringing him close enough to Steve for a kiss on the forehead, which makes Danny melt even more against Steve’s body.

“That’s funny,” he says when he recovers, looking up at Steve, but refraining from standing back up, not wanting to pull away, not wanting to leave the warmth. Steve doesn’t seem to mind in the least, if the affection in his eyes is anything to go by. “Because I seem to think  _you’re_  the infuriating one, and I’m  _definitely_  the one who can’t think of anything else.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “That could be problematic, given the nature of our work.”

Danny pretends to consider it. “Perhaps some extended time away from work... get it out of our system.”

“I really do like the way you think,” Steve whispers, against Danny’s lips. “I’ll have a word with your boss and see what he says....” 

Now Danny’s amused.  _Steve? Take time off willingly? Not likely._ He grins, and he loves how it feels with Steve’s lips resting lightly against his. Steve’s smiling as well. “Mmm, I dunno,” Danny says, nipping at Steve’s lower lip. “He’s not really one for taking time off....”

Steve frowns, mock offended, and maybe a little bit truly offended as well. “Well, maybe that’s about to change.”

“Oh yeah?” Danny’s doubt is muffled as his lips press into Steve’s.

“Mmmm....” Is all Steve can get out, licking his way deeper as though that will prove he means it.

Danny startles when he realizes they’re both growing hard again already. “Uuunhh.” He grunts, pushing off the counter, away from Steve. “I was  _trying_  to make food....” But Steve pulls him back, fingers digging into the soft flesh at Danny’s hip bones. It hurts, and he loves it. Loves the statement of it, the force of it, the  _claiming_  of it.

“ _I really think I’d rather you not_....” Steve says, and it’s nearly a growl, and damn, Danny likes that as well. “How about you make out with me instead and I’ll order us some take-out. I’ve decided I don’t want you doing anything else today.....”

Danny hears the implication heavy in Steve’s words. The possessiveness he’s always hinted at, when it comes to Danny, is rearing up, already—at the mere thought of Danny giving his attention to something other than Steve. It sends chills through his body, a prickle of apprehension through his mind, but his dick  _loves_  it. And frankly so does he.

But he’s going to pass out if they take this any further before  _food_.

“How about you let me make us some breakfast, since I’ve got everything out already, and it will be faster than take-out... and then you can do what you want with me the rest of the day, so long as you feed me regularly.”

Steve leans back, the hugest, happiest, most goddamn smug grin on his face. “You have yourself a deal, Detective Williams.” And he kisses Danny on the nose, and steps aside to pour the coffee, which has finished brewing.

So Danny makes the frittata, though Steve makes it challenging for him, nuzzling the backs of his ears, licking kisses along his neck, and pressing against Danny’s back, fingers dipping teasingly under the elastic of his pants when he least expects it. But Danny, perhaps surprisingly, doesn’t complain once. He does demand coffee, and he does grunt at Steve and shove him out of the way at times when he tries to block his path to the stove, but there’s this choreography to their interactions over food prep and kisses that’s already comfortable, already familiar. And Danny wonders how that could be, until he realizes it’s not all that different from their years of practice in the field. It’s body awareness, it’s that solid knowledge, absolutely assured, of where the other is, what he’s going to do next. Danny thinks that sex between them is going to be absolutely fucking fantastic.

Steve makes them take the food back up to bed, and he only eats half of his before he sets it aside and starts essentially mauling Danny. Clothes seem to offend him, as does anything that gets in the way of his exploration of Danny’s body. The tee shirts are the first to go. Sheets—the fresh one’s they’ve only just put on the bed—are pulled aside, pillows shoved violently against the headboard. Danny gives up trying to eat the rest of his food, takes one last swig of his coffee, and laughs.

“Alright, alright you absolute Neanderthal beast, here. Take me. Do what you will.”

What Steve  _will_ , evidently, is explore every conceivable inch of Danny’s body. Slowly, tantalizingly, and mostly with his tongue. Danny probably wouldn’t have guessed, if he’d been asked about it, that Steve would be so orally fixated, though somehow it feels fitting, only Danny’s not really sure why. In his defense,  _thinking_  is kind of difficult when you’re being subjected to such intense focused attention. Steve seems especially interested in Danny’s scars. Where he was shot, where Steve had his fingers inside Danny... he’s attentive to that spot in a way that feels cathartic for them both. Danny almost thinks he hears Steve muttering about being so afraid he was going to lose him, but the words are mere breaths, spoken to Danny’s skin, to the scar, and deeper inside, to where he’d had to put his fingers. As he moves lower, the transplant surgery scar draws Steve’s focus, and Danny could swear he’s saying thank you to Danny’s liver. He wants to laugh, but Steve’s so serious about these  _tributes_ , Danny thinks to call them, so he lets Steve alone to it, finding he feels some of his own residual resentment about those and other incidents bleeding away under Steve’s hot breath and soft but insistent tongue. His tender, possessive ministrations.

When he’s finished whispering to Danny’s skin, he slides up Danny’s body, hand resting heavily on his belly, eyes dark and sparkling intently. “I need you to be safe. I need you to make it to retirement with no more injuries. No more scars, alright?  _Enough_.”

Danny closes his eyes and lets out a harsh breath. “Babe.” He swallows. “I could say the same to you.”

Steve shakes his head. “But you won’t.”

“No, of course not. Because I know you won’t listen. So no, I’m not going to promise you that. Because I can’t, and you can’t, and we have to be okay with that, and you know it.”

“I just... I’ve almost lost you so many times. I couldn’t....”

“I know, babe, believe me, I know.”

Steve moves his hand up to cover Danny’s heart, rests his head against his shoulder, and lets out a long, slow breath. “I just wish I could keep you safe.”

Danny puts his hand over Steve’s, slips his fingers beneath Steve’s. Squeezes. “Focus on what you  _can_  do.”

“Like what?”

“Well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I sleep a lot better when I’m in bed with you.”

“Yeah?”

“And they say sleep is very important to good health and long life.”

“They  _do_....”

“So, if you’re concerned about me living a long and healthy life, sleeping with me is a really great way to help that.”

“I can do that.” Steve lifts himself on top of Danny, letting his body come to rest all along Danny’s, weighing him down. “They also say stress is bad. Especially for me. And I have found that if you’re sleeping well, my stress levels go way down. So that’s good. But I know something else that helps with stress. Something your stress consultant told us. Remember?” And with Steve’s hardening dick pressing against Danny’s, it’s difficult to remember much, but yes, he does remember that particular conversation. Very well.

He reaches his hands up to frame Steve’s face. “I’d be honored to help you out with that one, babe. Any time you need.” And he says it with a perfectly straight face, and Steve almost makes it, but he sputters on a laugh before recovering.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Daniel. Thank you.” He thrusts against Danny, and it’s not long before they’re both completely hard, and as nice as this is, Danny wants more. He’s not entirely sure how many times he’ll be able to do this today, and he wants to make more of it than just rutting against each other. As fantastic as those hand jobs were, he really needs to feel Steve inside him.  

“ _Any time at all_ , babe...” Danny says, pointedly, while squirming beneath Steve, hoping he’ll get the drift.

Steve stills, and looks down into Danny’s eyes as though he’s had some kind of massive revelation. His mouth forms the  _Ohhh_  light-bulb-moment shape, and Danny swears his cheeks pink ever so slightly, which for some reason makes Danny’s toes curl.

“Yeah, you’re gettin’ it now, aren’t you.” He can’t help it if he sounds teasing, really it is completely adorable of Steve to be so utterly clueless. Then he hesitates. “Tell me you have lube, babe.”

“ _Yes_ , yeah, god yes.  _Of course_ ,” Steve stammers awkwardly, as though being actually confronted with the offer of Danny’s ass is more than his circuits can handle. He climbs clumsily off the bed. “I’ll just... go get it....” And is it Danny, or does Steve seem dazed, almost? It’s really cute, Danny finds himself thinking, as he watches Steve stumble out of his sweats as he makes his way to the dresser, rummaging around for a bit before he comes up with an unopened bottle of lube. Rather a large one, Danny’s eyes bulge slightly to notice. He fumbles with the safety wrap, nearly dropping the bottle as he can’t seem to get it undone.

Danny sighs. “Give it here,” he says, holding out his hand, and Steve looks over at him, expression one of mixed relief and embarrassment. Steve’s been single long enough, Danny’s certain there’s an already open bottle in his bedside table, but he gets the need to start this with a fresh one—he’s done the same thing himself, and while he wouldn’t have pegged Steve as quite so sentimental, he does kind of love the thought. He raises enough of the edge of that danged heat-shrink-wrap to get a grip on it, and pulls it off with a flourish.

Steve’s still standing by the bed, fully naked, erection sagging slightly from his annoyance over packaging, and possibly something else, some hesitancy Danny thinks, over actually taking this step. Danny sets the bottle down on the bed on the other side of him, and gestures to Steve. “I think it’d be nice if you took these pants off me, don’t you?” His tone is more fond than the amused he thought he’d been aiming for, but from Steve’s reaction—both in the pulsing of his dick and the joy in his face, he’s guessing he hit the right note.

Steve leans over the bed, sliding fingers under the waist band of the sweats, tugging gently down, lifting over Danny’s own unflagging hard on, pausing in that moment as though almost stunned. “God you’re beautiful,” Steve murmurs—yes, to Danny’s dick.

He smirks. “Why thank you, now get the fuck up here and kiss me you giant oaf.”

It spurs him into action, and better—on to the bed, landing at Danny’s side with a swirl of heat that makes Danny’s head go a little woozy for a moment before their lips clash together and Danny’s head goes  _very_  woozy with the lack of air, because that’s what being kissed by Steve is evidently about. Having the air sucked right out of not just your lungs but your very cells. He gasps trying to get some air, and Steve starts to pull back, but Danny just digs his fingers into Steve’s back, probably leaving marks, but not wanting him to move any further away.

“You’re going to...have to...let go...of me...if you want me...to fuck you...you know,” Steve bites out between nipped kisses as Danny struggles to keep their lips pressed firmly together.

He drops his arms back on a sharp exhalation, as though it’s simply expecting too much, for him to release Steve. But when he feels his ass lifted, a pillow placed carefully beneath him, and when he glances up to see the look on Steve’s face as he contemplates his goal, well, fuck if it isn’t worth every inch of cold, exposed skin.

“God, look at you,” Danny breathes out, nearly soundless from the way Steve’s expression has hit him in the chest. “Like you’re seeing something miraculous, and not just my bare asshole.”

Steve looks up at him, eyes agog, mouth parted just enough to make Danny want to slide a finger in, over those plush, bitten lips. “But you’re offering it to me, offering  _yourself_  to me, Danny. And that means so much to me, I want you to know that. This isn’t something I take lightly. This is.... God, this is  _everything_.”

There’s part of Danny that wants to minimize that, because it’s too much, it’s too intense, it’s too  _Steve_. Because of course this isn’t just some rough and tumble, this isn’t a meaningless fuck. This is powerfully meaningful. For both of them. And Danny’s not going to ruin it for himself by pretending otherwise.

“So show me,” he says instead, handing Steve the bottle. And he’s on a roll with having the right words for Steve, because his face lights up, and he meets Danny’s eyes with something Danny can’t even begin to name, but that makes him tingle all over.

Steve breaks away from Danny’s gaze, and looks down at his hands, flipping the lid open, squeezing a glob of lube onto his fingers, warming it up a little too thoroughly for Danny’s patience level to be honest, before coating his index finger thoroughly, rubbing the rest across Danny’s hole with his other hand, and slowly pressing at his opening, looking utterly transfixed by the process.

“I do this regularly myself, you do realize. You’re not going to break me.”

“Jesus, Danny, let me enjoy this would you?”

Danny huffs out a laugh that’s more than a little flavored by the knife’s edge of expectation, the anticipation of more, of that moment when Steve hits it just—

“Uuungh! Just like that,  _oh god_.”

Steve looks up at Danny, as though he’s made his point. “See, buddy, let me take my time with this, alright? I told you this is important to me.”

Danny’s fairly certain he’s never seen Steve look so serious. He’s also certain it’s never felt so good, having  _one finger_  inside him. Granted, he’s always known Steve’s got nimble and talented fingers, fingers that are deft at defusing bombs, hotwiring vehicles, cleaning guns, and other suitably Navy SEAL-esque kinds of things. He should have known that some of that would translate beautifully into  _this_ , but he’s glad it never occurred to him because he probably would have died from want long before now. As it is, he’s near enough to going insane....

“Babe, I love you, and I want you to have this moment, but could you please move things along before I implode?”

And he doesn’t think, as the words leave his lips. It doesn’t flicker to life any of his normal filters or any of his usual reticence, his daily level of being cautious and worried and reluctant. It just comes right on out, and he doesn’t even realize he’s said anything important until he feels the sharp loss as Steve’s finger is withdrawn, feels the full heat of Steve’s body landing on top of his. And he’s smothered in kisses pressed against his chest, along his neck, up the side of his face, landing finally on his mouth in a huff of breath. He doesn’t place it in time, Steve’s motivation for this sudden outpouring of affection, and he’s about to ask what he missed when Steve kisses his reply onto Danny’s lips. 

“ _I love you, too._ So fucking much.”

It’s an interesting sensation, to be smiling hugely while someone is trying their best to kiss the air out of your lungs, but Danny kind of loves it a whole lot, and it’s not long before he’s following Steve back down that swirling intensity of airless kisses.

Steve finally pulls back for a gasping breath, banging their foreheads together, seemingly lost—which is endearing beyond belief, but Danny’s not lost. Danny’s very keenly aware of how far Steve had gotten, and precisely where he’d left him. Just  _exactly_  where Steve had left him.

“Babe,” he whispers, softening the ask with kisses. “D’you think you could... move on to two fingers now? I hate to be impatient, but I want you inside me so badly I feel like my skin is on fire.”

The intensity of his words surprises him, but it’s just the right note to break Steve out of his stupor, and he plants one last rough, eager kiss on Danny’s lips, nodding enthusiastically, and searching for the bottle which he’d knocked out of the way in his haste to return Danny’s words of adoration.

He’s less patient this time, more ramped up to get to the next part, but he’s still so stunningly careful and through, and Danny knows it should not surprise him in the least, and maybe surprise isn’t entirely accurate, maybe  _awe_  is more fitting. It swells in his chest, warms his belly, reaching outward in pulsating waves. He’d known, he thinks, that being the subject of Steve’s attentions in bed would be  _amazing_. He almost kicks himself for not realizing just  _how_  amazing it would be.

Steve’s brushing his prostate, twisting his fingers, opening Danny up gloriously, but Danny has a point. He’s not exactly unused to the intrusion. And he’s had some time with his hand wrapped around Steve’s dick, which is longer than he’s taken before, but not thicker, so he’s not feeling any of the uneasiness he might ordinarily feel for a first time, and he wants more time with more of Steve more inside him, so he clenches down to get Steve’s attention, and when those hazel eyes, green with intensity, meet his, he doesn’t even need to say it. Steve just nods, withdraws his fingers, and with the lube still in his other hand, readies himself in short order, pressing half way in with such ease, it leaves Danny breathless.

“You good?” Steve asks, holding himself amazingly still, giving Danny time to adjust, and he tilts his hips a little getting the angle just right, and he knew Steve was a good bit longer than he’s taken before, but it’s one thing to be aware of that, and another to be  _aware_  of it, and he’s fighting back that little bit of panic he didn’t have before. But Steve smiles down at him, some of that overwhelmed awe from before has faded into a more certain, confident, knowing. And it’s the perfect encouragement for Danny, and he feels his body relax into it, almost without trying. He nods, and Steve grins. “Good man,” he whispers, and starts to push the rest of the way in, slowly, carefully, but insistently.

Danny shifts slightly beneath the press inside, as though he’ll make room by doing so, and it doesn’t  _not_  hurt, but it also feels like a revelation—knowing Steve’s reaching places in him no one has before—and he loves that, he loves it so fucking much because it is simply, perfectly, completely  _true_.

He huffs out three careful breaths, then says, possibly a little too angrily, “For godsake,  _move_.”

And Steve laughs, and he does, and  _holyfuckingshit_ , it’s amazing.

Little sparks of color light up behind Danny’s eyes, flashes of light and swirls of fire explode inside him as he knows it’s never been like this before. It’s never been this intense, this heightened, this  _much_. And he’s never been held this long on the edge of his orgasm, never lasted this long at this intense a level, and partly he wants to know how much longer it can last before it kills him, and partly he needs that release, craves it. But he can’t chase it, he doesn’t know which way is what, he can only take it all as it comes, washing over him, all the sensations coming from Steve—the heat, the thrusts, the bristly friction of the hair on his body where it rubs against Danny’s. And Steve’s making little throaty sounds, little gasps, little murmurs of things that might be endearments, might be swearing, might be promises, probably are all three, and Danny finds he’s letting go more than he’s ever let go before, and it’s like Steve can tell that moment when it happens, because that’s when he gasps, and sputters, and thrusts one last time, almost weakly, and Danny feels himself being filled, more than he’d imagined Steve might still have in him—that heart-stopping, intimate feeling of being trusted with Steve’s innermost spend, and Steve barely gets one slick, wet slide of his hand on Danny’s beyond-swollen dick before he releases his own surprisingly copious seed across his belly, spurting up to hit Steve on the chest as well.

Amazingly, Steve still has the strength to hold himself on his arms over Danny, not collapsing against him, not crushing him beneath, and they stay like that, gazing into each others’ eyes, clearly moved. A little taken aback to be honest. 

And utterly, utterly  _gone_.

Danny’s the first to regain the power of speech, probably only because most of Steve’s remaining energy is going to the stunning feat of holding himself up.

“Well, that changes everything, now doesn’t it?”

Steve laughs, and carefully slides out of Danny’s surprisingly not over-sensitized ass, collapsing finally on his side, and wrapping Danny up, with one leg and one arm, holding him down, pulling him close—claiming him. 

As if he hasn’t already done exactly that.

“Yeah, buddy. It sure does.”

And maybe the quality of Danny’s sleep isn’t the most important part of that change, but it’s a fabulous side benefit at the very least. The utter bliss and contentment of spending his nights at Steve’s side, warm and safe and loved....

Yeah, that really _does_ change everything.


End file.
